Ah, very good.
Oct. 6th, 2005 09:42 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
green_dreamsIt is National Poetry Day in Britain.
Since for the life of me nothing is coming to mind save Edwin Arlington Robinson's Richard Cory, I am instead posting a Martin Newell poem (courtesy of![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tyrell, pointed out to me by theweaselking).
In praise of poetry
Poetry is no less than this:
An unexpected workplace kiss
The brandy in the spirit cage
A salve upon our wounded age
That lustful swell, the secret damp
The yellow of the attic lamp
The drifting, smoky, hazel haze
Of wooded hills on autumn days
Between the thoughts of summer lost
And anvil of the winter frost
The horse returning to the door
Of empty stables after war
Riderless, uncertain now
Past the harrow and its plough
Plodding up the pitted track
Battered saddle on his back.
Poetry: Rentboy of the arts
Loitering with the other tarts
Knowing far more than it should
Much too much for its own good
Bitching, blurting, doing deals
Selling out for drinks and meals
Jumping on the latest trends
Disappointing loyal friends
Eye on clock and thumb on scales
Marrying for cash and sales
You wouldn't trust him in your car
And definitely not, a bar.
The poet though, is alchemist
A snake-oil salesman, pharmacist
A mojo merchant trawling town
The painter put his dust-sheet down
In case your old horizons run
Before he touches up the sun
Recalling feelings you may not
Evoking those that you forgot
Giving voice to words unsaid
The godless freefall in your head
The things you never knew, yet miss.
Poetry is no less than this.
The line about "loitering with the other tarts" conjures up the image of poetry and English hanging out on a street corner somewhere, splitting a cigarette and gossiping about something tawdry but incredibly engaging. How he made someone cry the other day, perhaps, or what she heard French talking about in his sleep.
Since for the life of me nothing is coming to mind save Edwin Arlington Robinson's Richard Cory, I am instead posting a Martin Newell poem (courtesy of
tyrell, pointed out to me by theweaselking).In praise of poetry
Poetry is no less than this:
An unexpected workplace kiss
The brandy in the spirit cage
A salve upon our wounded age
That lustful swell, the secret damp
The yellow of the attic lamp
The drifting, smoky, hazel haze
Of wooded hills on autumn days
Between the thoughts of summer lost
And anvil of the winter frost
The horse returning to the door
Of empty stables after war
Riderless, uncertain now
Past the harrow and its plough
Plodding up the pitted track
Battered saddle on his back.
Poetry: Rentboy of the arts
Loitering with the other tarts
Knowing far more than it should
Much too much for its own good
Bitching, blurting, doing deals
Selling out for drinks and meals
Jumping on the latest trends
Disappointing loyal friends
Eye on clock and thumb on scales
Marrying for cash and sales
You wouldn't trust him in your car
And definitely not, a bar.
The poet though, is alchemist
A snake-oil salesman, pharmacist
A mojo merchant trawling town
The painter put his dust-sheet down
In case your old horizons run
Before he touches up the sun
Recalling feelings you may not
Evoking those that you forgot
Giving voice to words unsaid
The godless freefall in your head
The things you never knew, yet miss.
Poetry is no less than this.
The line about "loitering with the other tarts" conjures up the image of poetry and English hanging out on a street corner somewhere, splitting a cigarette and gossiping about something tawdry but incredibly engaging. How he made someone cry the other day, perhaps, or what she heard French talking about in his sleep.
